


Never Ask for Anything

by littlemiss_m



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brain Surgery, Brain Tumors, Gen, Sickfic, Xenophobia, no-one dies in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 11:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: In November, Prompto starts to get sick.





	Never Ask for Anything

So far, their last year of high school has began an uneventful one, full of exams and college applications and talks about their futures, delightfully boring and devoid of drama. In August, a girl gets hit by a car just outside the school gates, and when she comes back to school two weeks later, it's in a wheelchair and the sight of her makes Noctis nauseous, even though he soon learns it's all temporary. In October, they celebrate Prompto's eighteenth birthday by getting drunk and eating spicy carrot cake that's so good that Noctis can't even complain. Prompto snaps a picture of him shoving cake into his face and prints it out for Ignis, who hangs it in his office for the entire Citadel staff to see.

In November, Prompto starts to get sick. Noctis doesn't notice it at first, everything too slow and steady to make a difference between two consequent days, but eventually it all becomes obvious. When Gladio and Prompto go for their runs, they take more and more time, the two of them frowning at their tracker apps in confusion. Noctis doesn't miss the way Gladio glances at Prompto, eyebrows furrowed together and lips pulled into a thin line. Then they realize that Prompto isn't eating properly anymore, that he's skipping some meals and not finishing others, citing nausea and lack of appetite, prompting hushed discussions about eating disorders and stress and a million other things. Then, a morning after the usual Friday-night sleepover, Noctis is the first one to wake and he shakes Prompto into the world of the living only to be rewarded with unfocused eyes that don't seem to recognize him. A moment later, Prompto recovers, but the damage is done and Noctis is terrified.

It's the first Friday of December and Noctis stands in his apartment, forehead pressed against a cold window as he watches the gentle flurry of snowflakes dancing in the wind. It's late, almost ten in the evening, and he hasn't heard from Prompto in hours. The first and last message of the day reads ”gonna be late today srry.” Noctis knows his best friend had a doctor's appointment in the morning, he made sure to take notes and collect all the homework for Prompto before leaving school, but he's been waiting all day long and knows that whatever the doctor had to say, it wasn't anything good. His chest feels cold and empty and barren, and every time his phone beeps with a message from someone other than Prompto, he briefly entertains the thought of sending Ignis after the blond.

He doesn't. He waits, and waits, and waits, as worry gnaws in his guts, and at twenty minutes past ten, the door opens and Prompto walks in. He's soaking wet and shivering in clothes that weren't warm enough dry, and Noctis hurries to help him. Prompto's fingers are too frozen to work the zipper of his coat so Noctis tugs it open for him, pulling it off and throwing it away.

”Oh shit, Prom, you're freezing,” he mumbles, harried and more than a little panicked. ”Shit, go get something dry on, I'll nuke some soup for you.”

He pesters Prompto into his bedroom and stays long enough to see the other start removing the rest of his clothes, then heads to the kitchen to pull a container of Iggy's chicken noodle soup from the freezer. He pops the lid but leaves it on top of the plastic box, pushes the entire thing into the microwave and then hurries back to Prompto, who's stripped down to his underwear and stands shivering in front of the dresser. Noctis pulls out his warmest pair of sweats and a soft shirt, scourges the closet for a thick hoodie before settling on one of Gladio's. It takes the two of them to get Prompto dressed again, the blond still frozen stiff, and Noctis is beginning to wonder if he should call Ignis or the medical.

”D'you need a doctor?” he asks, and Prompto laughs, a hysteric bubble of mirth. Noctis takes it as a no – remembers the appointment, feels ready to cry – and leads Prompto to the living room sofa, where he bundles the blond in blankets and pillows. The chicken soup, when he check it, is molten into icy chunks so he stirs it and adds some more time. When he returns to Prompto, his friend seems calm. Noctis knows he's scared.

”You had the appointment today, didn't you,” he says softly, sitting right next to Prompto and curling into his space. He'd hold onto Prompto's hands if they weren't hidden under the blankets.

”Yeah,” Prompto murmurs in response, his first word since showing up. ”I – I have a brain tumor, Noct. A fucking brain tumor.”

It's like the floor disappeared from underneath them but Noctis – always the good princeling – knows how to compartmentalize, so he simply draws in a long, calming breath and blinks back the tears of fright. ”How bad is it?” he asks, scared of the answer. He doesn't want to know, but he has to.

To his surprise, Prompto snorts a soft laugh. ”It's probably not that bad,” he says, ”for a brain tumor at least. The doctor – he said it's most likely benign, so not cancer, and that it's in a good location. But – he wants to do surgery. ASAP. And, and I got the estimate for the sum, and it's – Noct it's so much, I don't have that kind of money, I'm so sorry–”

His words cut off there and he dissolves into heavy sobs. In the kitchen, the microwave beeps loudly but Noctis is too stunned, too heartbroken to move. He stares at his best friend, his brother in everything but blood, and feels his heart burst and shatter. For almost three years, he's done everything in his might to shove just a little bit more money in Prompto's direction, trying to buy food and clothes and school books when his friend's parents were gone, but the most Prompto has ever accepted is an occasional trinket and his birthday gifts, refusing everything bigger than a meal at Kenny's. Noctis has offered to buy him the camera, too, but Prompto hasn't let him.

And now, here they are, Prompto begging for money needed to save his life, and Noctis taking back every wish he's ever made about wanting to make things just a bit better for his friend.

”I'll pay for it,” he hurries to reply, ”I'll pay every single gil it takes to get you better, okay? So please don't worry about the money, Prom, I promise I'll take care of it, you hear me?”

Prompto nods, face wet from tears and snot. ”I didn't want to ask,” he cries, ”but I gotta. I'm so scared, Noct–”

Noctis doesn't hesitate to throw his arms around the crying blond, who immediately rests his head on his shoulder. He doesn't know how he's going to organize the issue, he'll have to ask Ignis for his help, but for now, he thinks his embrace is enough. It takes a while before Prompto runs out of tears, naturally, and when he quiets, he stays where he is. There's something else on his mind, but it's not something he'll say without prompting. As much as Noctis loves his best friend, he hates this side of the blond, the one that's too shy to complain, too shy to ask for help. He knows that if it weren't Prompto's literal life on the line here, they wouldn't be having this conversation at all.

”What is it, Prom?” he asks. ”I know there's something else bothering you.”

The sigh is a warm gust of air on Noctis' neck. Prompto takes his time answering. ”I think I should find another doctor,” he eventually confesses, burrowing further into Noctis' arms. ”It's not that I don't trust his diagnosis, but... he was really rude to me, you know? Kept on talking about dirty refugees and shit like that. And I don't know if – I mean, he's gonna be cutting into my brain, yeah? My fucking brain! And. I just.”

He doesn't continue any further, nor does he have to. Noctis closes his eyes and bites back the furious curses threatening to spill from his lips. When he's calm once more, he speaks: ”Don't worry about that xenophobic piece of shit, we'll get you a better doctor.” He pauses to think. ”Listen, I think it'd be best to call in Specs, if that's okay with you. He can probably organize the thing a lot faster and better than I can.”

Prompto nods against his shoulder. ”Yeah,” he murmurs. ”And if it's okay, I think I'd like the soup now.”

Noctis lets go. The soup has cooled down so he reheats it once more before dumping everything into a bowl that he hands off to Prompto, then disappearing back into the kitchen to make the call while the other eats. He wants to cry, wants to scream and rage at the unfairness of the world, but he doesn't. It's not his time yet. Right now, he's a rock in a turbulent ocean, and he can only shatter once Prompto is out of earshot.

Not cancer, he tries to tell himself. It doesn't help much at all.

* * *

After Ignis gets the call, he's still as a statue while he thinks. Though it's late in the evening, he's still dressed, classic music playing in his suite while he sips at a glass of red wine and enjoys a good book. He shuts down the player and pours out the wine, corks the bottle. He's not drunk, not even tipsy, but he won't be driving today, so he calls Gladio.

”Has Noctis contacted you yet?” he asks. His voice booms in the silence of the Citadel's night.

”No, what's wrong?”

”Prompto has a brain tumor,” Ignis says, the words stiff as cardboard in his mouth. Gladio is silent but his hurt is almost tangible through the static of the phone line. ”I am on my way to the medical right now; if you're suitable for driving tonight, I'd like a lift to the apartment once I'm done here.”

”Yeah,” Gladio murmurs over the line. ”Hang on – dad, I gotta go, I'll let you know later. Is Prom with Noct?”

”Yes. I – I imagine they'll both be needing support tonight.”

”Yeah. I'll be there in twenty, meet you in the lobby when you're done?”

”That's fine,” Ignis says. He rounds a corner and almost walks into a night guard. ”I'll see you then. Drive safe.”

It takes him almost fifteen minutes to march his way through the Citadel. The medical wing is just as quiet as the rest of the building, any patients sleeping in their rooms. A lone person sits behind the nurse's desk and when she sees Ignis walk in, she stands up and greets him with a worried expression. She thinks he's here for Noctis.

”Who's the neurosurgeon on call tonight?” he asks, though his voice is more of a command. The nurse scrolls through a list of names and nods.

”Dr. Ferrum, room 416,” she says, and Ignis walks away without a second thought. He's worried, the elevator too slow, and he realizes he's nowhere near as calm and collected as he should be. He stills the foot tapping against the floor, unfolds his crossed arms. Prompto needs him at his best, and this nervous wreck simply will not do.

When he enters Dr. Ferrum's office, he's no less worried, but he's calmer. The man himself sits at his desk, eyes widening in worry when he recognizes Ignis. ”Is everything–”

”His Highness' best friend has been diagnozed with a brain tumor,” Ignis says, cutting in. He takes a seat and passes Prompto's social security ID to the doctor, who types it into his computer without a question.

”Prompto Argentum, eighteen years old?” Ignis nods and silence falls over the room as Dr. Ferrum scrolls through Prompto's medical file, face thoughtful but not explicitly alarmed. Ignis isn't comforted by this. ”Well, I can confirm the diagnosis, at least. Looks like a benign tumor – I agree that surgery should be conducted at earliest possible moment. Is there a reason you're coming to me with this?”

”The doctor who diagnozed the tumor also made several xenophobic comments that left Prompto feeling unsafe in his care,” Ignis explains, seething inside. ”He is also unable to cover the cost of the surgery on his own, and His Highness promised to help him with all he can.”

Dr. Ferrum nods. ”I'd like to examine him myself before moving any further,” he says. ”Go to the Crown Hospital tomorrow morning, get more pictures done. I can examine him at half past two and unless something unexpected comes up, we'll take him in and do the surgery on Sunday morning.”

Ignis jots down the times, mouth dry. Everything is so fast, so sudden, and even though they've been worrying for a month or so, the reality of Prompto's illness is a shock. ”How – I am not very familiar with the topic at hand. Is the surgery very dangerous?”

Dr. Ferrum turns to face him properly. ”It's brain surgery,” he says. ”It is what it is. Based on the information at hand, I am not particularly worried, but one never knows. The tumor itself is not extremely large and it's in a good location. It doesn't appear to be cancerous, though we won't know for sure until we've removed it. It is reasonable to worry, but this is not a death sentence.”

Ignis still doesn't feel comfortable but he stands up and thanks the doctor. To his surprise, he finds Gladio hovering outside the door, the Shield dark-faced and tense in anticipation. They share a look, two men so very afraid for their friend, and turn in unison. Ignis talks to Gladio, recounts Noctis' call and the doctor's words, and tries not to fret. Gladio talks about calling Noctis and Regis and Clarus, getting everyone updated on the situation. Ignis suddenly wonders if it's bad that the doctors are pushing to have the surgery as soon as possible, or if that's normal in these cases. He doesn't know, and he didn't think to ask Dr. Ferrum while he had the chance.

The drive across the inner city is quiet, both in the car and outside of it. Though it's Friday night and all the party people are out, the streets themselves are mostly empty, only used by taxis and the occasional bus still on its route. When they park in the garage of Noctis' apartment bulding, they both sit still for a moment, two men as different as day and night, both thinking the same.

Gladio sighs and opens his door. Ignis plasters a small smile on his face and follows suit. When they enter the apartment, they find the two young men cuddling on Noctis' bed. Prompto's clothes are strewn all over the place, a damp coat on the floor of the entrance and the rest of his outfit in the bedroom. It's Gladio who collects them, because Ignis is the one who has sit on the bed next to a red-eyed Prompto shaking in fear, has to tell him about Dr. Ferrum and about the next day – the current day, now – and the surgery on Sunday. He tells the boys to sleep, but doubts that anyone other than Gladio will be getting any shuteye anytime soon.

* * *

Sunday morning comes fast. Gladio wakes up in Prompto's hospital room, where he's spent the night sleeping on a crickety cot that can only barely hold his weight. When he turns his head to look, Prompto is still asleep, but there's a nurse at the door, pushing in a trolley with a plastic medicine cup, a pair of scissors, and an electric hair clipper. Gladio has to close his eyes at the sight.

”Already?” he asks, slowly sitting up. The nurse smiles, a bit sad.

”The surgery will begin at eight,” she answers. It's five. ”Will the rest of his friends be visiting? We're going to keep him as comfortable as possible, but the drugs will also make him a bit loopy.”

”They were told to be here at six.”

They'd spent the previous day at the hospital, all four of them. They'd waited on hallways and lounges and private rooms, all of them scared, but none as terrified as Prompto had been. Ignis had taken Noctis home for the night but Gladio had stayed, the boy's parents nowhere to be heard of. It makes him furious, just thinking about them.

He watches as the nurse gently shakes Prompto awake and tries not to cringe when it takes a long moment before the blond recognizes his surroundings and Gladio. Then, a split second later, he's terrified beyond reason once more.

”Morning, sweetheart,” the nurse coos at him. ”Time to get up.”

Prompto doesn't speak. Gladio can see the moment he notices the clippers because his entire body goes tense. The nurse holds onto his shoulders and smiles with the kindness of a mother. ”I'm going to cut your hair now and then we'll get you started on your medications, okay? Do you need to use the toilet first?”

Gladio watches as Prompto scampers off the bed and towards the ensuite, the lock loud against the quiet of the morning. The nurse smiles sadly in Gladio's direction and busies herself plugging the clippers into the wall and fluffing the pillows on the bed. If Prompto takes a bit longer than what it actually takes to use the toilet, they don't say anything about it.

”We're going to cut your hair from here to here,” the nurse says, drawing a sweeping arch over Prompto's left ear. ”Your hair is so pretty it's almost a shame to cut it, hmm?”

Prompto looks more overwhelmed than placated by the words, so Gladio cuts in, forcing on a grin. ”Yeah?” he asks, eyeing the nurse currently combing Prompto's hair into place. ”You gonna give him an undercut?”

The nurse smiles at him over Prompto's head. ”Oh, is that what you kids are calling it these days? Don't you worry, sweetheart, you'll fit right in with all those military folks at the Citadel. I bet we can make you look even more dashing than your friend here.”

Gladio feigns indignation and Prompto sniggers wetly while the nurse picks up the scissors and begins chopping up chunks of golden hair. The left side is the one with the shorter stands, anyways, and Gladio can almost pretend that Prompto's getting his hair cut just for the fun of it; an undercut really wouldn't look out of place on him. Might make him a bit less soft and fluffy, even.

Prompto begins crying in earnest when the nurse turns the clippers on, but doesn't resist when she tips his head over and continues working. The sight makes Gladio's heart ache, and when the nurse steps back and turns of the clippers, there's so much hair missing from Prompto's head that Gladio finds himself glancing around the room for any mirrors to hide.

”I don't want to do this,” Prompto sobs, head bowed and shoulders hunched up to his ears. ”I don't want to do this, I'm scared, _please_ , I'm _scared_.”

”Oh, sweetheart,” the nurse sighs even as Gladio stands up and walks over to the bed. ”I know it's a really scary day for you, but you have the best doctors working on you. Do you think you could take your medicine now, hmm? You won't be so afraid anymore, I promise.”

Prompto continues sobbing but takes the offered pills, swallows them down between wails and the sounds of him choking. Gladio holds onto his knee in a silent show of support, because in the end, there's nothing else he can do but be. A moment later, the nurse leaves with her trolley and Gladio gets on the bed. By the time Ignis and Noctis arrive, Prompto's pupils are dilated and his tears dried, and then there are only three stone-faced men in the room, trying to hold each other together once more.

Gladio was raised to be strong, like Ignis was raised to be wise and Noctis was raised to be calm. When the nurses come to take Prompto and to lead them into a waiting room, he knows they are all weak and irrational and distraught.

* * *

Waking up is a funny thing, somehow, like he can't quite pull himself out of the soft, blurred fuzziness surrounding him. He's maybe vaguely aware of people in green clothes around him, but even that doesn't seem real. Then he's suddenly blinking, flexing his fingers, and someone leans over him once more to ask questions he can't get right. His head hurts for some reason and small chips of ice burn in his mouth, and then it's a different scene altogether, him once again trying to pull away from the sweet grasp of sleep and nothingness. This time the questions aren't so hard and he thinks the man asking them looks almost pleased at him. The man talks something about a surgery, the word a nagging feeling at the back of his head, then mentions his friends and like, wow, friends are really good and cool and just. Friends. Yes.

It really isn't till way, way later that the haze begins to clear and Prompto realizes that yes, he just survived his brain surgery and probably didn't come out much worse than they'd started at. His tongue's a little thick in his mouth and his words slurred at times, but with the doctors and nurses sprouting praises of success while his friends smile in the background, he's willing to take what he's given and go with it. He's okay. There are hands in his hands and soft voices in his ears, and he's okay.


End file.
